


The Man With a Face That Was Good

by TotalSkeletonTrash



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: But it’s part of COBC’s canon so…, COBC - Freeform, Dating, Fluff, Other, Reader has no defined gender, Sorry this isn’t ACTUALLY Undertale, You guys asked for this so here you go, hair stuff, it’s just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7815811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotalSkeletonTrash/pseuds/TotalSkeletonTrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You guys wanted a Reader/Capra fic, so here you go. This is technically canon for the CoBC timeline. Enjoy.</p>
<p>Go on a date with Capra immediately after his awkward barrier incident</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man With a Face That Was Good

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Chill or Be Chilled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387672) by [TotalSkeletonTrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotalSkeletonTrash/pseuds/TotalSkeletonTrash). 



You’ve got an hour and a half between two major obligations: the class you weren’t even halfway prepared to teaching to freshmen who didn’t give a shit, and dinner with your parents. The glamorous life of a grad student never ceases to amaze. 

Oh. And you need a haircut. 

Your mom never let it go when you showed up to see her, hair in your eyes or strands falling loose. “Sweetie,” (you could hear her voice already) “don’t you want to look presentable?! I mean, you’re a professor now!”

Now, you could grumble back “T.A., mom,” and you would! Normally, you totally would! But your little brother had given you a call earlier that day to warn you that this wasn’t going to be the most pleasant dinner anyway. 

“You’re screwed, dude.” He’d laughed. “Mom and dad have been freaking out that you’re not pursuing the, uh, right path. No job. No significant other. Still rockin’ that hippie look-”

“Grad. School.” You’d growled. 

“Well… look, I’m just saying, you’d better impress them. Mom’s been talking about moving cities to be closer to you to, heh, motivate you.” 

“Oh hell no. Hell. No. Please. I’m not having mom breathing down my ass every - I thought I was _done_ with helicopter parenting! She can’t really do that, can she?” 

“Right. Because you know mom and dad. Logic and reason.” Your brother had snickered. “Look. Just… pretend you have your shit together for one night-”

“I _do!_ ”

“Then get a fucking haircut.” He’d laughed. “Think it’s too late for the boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever, but at least you can make your head… better.” 

The little asshole had a point.  
\-------------------------------------------------

You’ve got your haircut place, of course. Well, more like _the_ haircut place, the one that was close to the bus line you needed in downtown Ebott, the one with the incredibly brusque service, the one where only one hairdresser spoke the same language as you (and she didn’t really care about what kind of haircut you asked for anyway). The quick one. The cheap one. The one that invariably gave you the best haircut you’d sworn you’d ever had, each and every time.

“Talia! Hey. I’m in a rush, can I-”

“Sit down. Wait. Other customer.” She interrupts you, nodding at a chair. You do a double take. Another customer? This place literally never has other customers. Like, ever. You can barely believe it. 

“Ok. Talia, I have dinner in like… fifty minutes though. Okay? Like. Fifty. Minutes.” You emphasize. She glares at you for a long moment, clears her throat, then repeats; 

“Sit.” 

You sit. 

The other customer isn’t currently having his hair cut either, and it looks like he’s having a hard time holding in his impatience. Then again… well, the dude needs a cut just as bad as you do. He’s got a glorious mane of jet black hair that just doesn’t go with the nice suit he’s wearing, and he keeps running his fingers anxiously through it. When you sit down in the barber chair next to him, he immediately snaps his head over to look at you.

“Have you been here before?” He demands. You… take a moment. Oh, that is a good face. That is a good good face right there. It’s got the… the eyes. And the stuff. And maybe something else? Something magnetic. Charismatic. Oh god, those eyes are very blue.

He’s looking at you like you’re a moron. Well, that’s kind of fair. You were getting stuck on a simple question. 

“Uh. Sorry. Yeah.” You finally mutter, trying to get your hair out of your eyes - damn it, Mom was right!

“Do they normally just make you sit down and then disappear into the back room for infinite amounts of time?” He asks, his expression softening now that he has an answer. He looks… well, amused, a little. 

“Heh. Uh, yeah. That’s par for the course.” You admit. Talia, over at the reception desk, clears her throat loudly, and you add, “Oh, but… dude, don’t leave, they do really really really good haircuts!”

The look he gives your hair at that declaration speaks volumes more than anything he might have said out loud. You sigh. 

“I know. But that’s due only to my own negligence, promise. You are going to like the way you look.”

“Do you guarantee it?” He drawls, amused, and you let out an unattractive snort of laughter, then duck your head. 

“Uh, yeah. Pinky promise.” 

He looks levelly at you for a long moment, and then he extends his hand, pinky outstretched, an eyebrow quirked. You look at the space between his barber chair and yours, think about the fact that this is pretty par for the course, as far as your life goes, and reach over, locking pinkies with him. He grins, just for a second, then manages to find his perfect composition again. 

“Peter Capra.” He introduces himself, as calmly as if you were shaking his hand at a business meeting, not locking pinkies with him at a hair salon. 

You cough out your name and he grins again, releasing your hand and then glancing at the door to the back room, where the hairdressers are … honestly, probably just watching a soap and drinking some tea. 

“It really is good, then? I asked a guy at work and he gave me this place as a recommendation. I was beginning to think he was just fucking with me.” He says lazily. 

“Yeah. I don’t give up my pinkie promises lightly. Word is bond.” You say, and wince internally. Word is bond? Fuck. Why are you saying such stupid things to this beautiful man? “Uh. So. What’s work?” You attempt to recover. At that question, he really does smile, a big brilliant smile and goddamn if your heart doesn’t do this terrible thump thing. He nods his head out the window, somehow encompassing all of Mt. Ebott, and you know the answer before he speaks.

“EbbCo.”

“Coooooool.” You can’t help yourself. He beams again at that, though.

“Sometimes. Pretty often. I like to think. We’re working on some really cool shit right now.” His eyes glint for a second. ‘We’re gonna change the world.” 

“But, you’re a suit?” You ask, and when his face falls, you kick yourself again. 

“Okay. First. Rude. Second. I can be a suit _and_ be in R &D, dig me?” He says, and again, after a second, that smile he can’t help but contain. “Trust me. You’re gonna be hearing my name when it comes to the big shit.”

“...I think I do trust you.” You admit, after a second. After all, you’ve never seen anyone so… intense before. Like he’s crackling with energy, charisma (there was that word again), _something_. He looks pleased when you say that though, and he glances you over again, this time with more interest. 

“So. How about you? What’s the big rush? What’s your deal?” He demands.

“Uhhhh…. I’m a grad student at the university-”

“Course of study?” He interrupts. 

“Um. Theoretical physics?” 

It’s his turn. “Cooooooool.” It sounds a little sarcastic, but then, somehow you can tell that he also clearly means it. “So like, string theory or-”

“Kind of a lot of stuff.” You say, and he pouts at you. Your heart does that thing again. You don’t want to make this guy pout. “Uh, I mean, I guess, I’m a TA, we could go over it-”

“Oh! So you have to explain this stuff to people for money.” His expression changes to one of understanding. “Good. Good for you. Don’t give something away for free that people will pay for.” 

“...I won’t.” You say with a shrug.

“So, what’s the rush? Hot date?” He says wryly, arching an eyebrow, and you let out a terrible, terrible honking sound. One that’s probably supposed to be a laugh. “...Not a hot date, then.” He concludes, chuckling. 

“Er. No. Exact opposite. My parents are coming into town, and apparently if I don’t impress upon them that I’m not a human dumpster fire, then they might actually move here and try to supervise me.”

He stares at you, after that. 

“How old are you?” He asks.

“...Twenty-five.” You admit, and he smiles a little. 

“Me too.” Oh. Oh. Somehow, you’d thought he was older. Maybe the suit, maybe the confidence… “You’re surprised.” He notes, looking at you. 

“Uh, yeah. I thought you were at least like… thirty.” He seems to think on that for a long time. 

“I, uh, I have literally never gotten that before.” He says. “Huh. Man, I hope that I didn’t fuck anything up last night… I’m not like wrinkly or anything, right? My face looks normal?” He sees your confusion. “I did this, um, experiment last night, and-”

“Don’t worry, you look great. Really. Great.” You say, and feel the back of your neck heat up like someone applied a hair dryer to it. 

His grin is even wider now.

“So why would your parents think you’re a dumpster fire?” He asks

“Uh. Twenty-five. Still a student. No boyfriend. Hair looks like this. This whole deal.” You mutter, gesturing vaguely at yourself, and his eyebrows raise. 

“So you’re getting a haircut.”

“To convince my hovering parents to leave me the hell alone, yeah.” 

He’s thinking again. His brows knit in concentration, and he pushes his hair out of his face. 

“Do you think it’ll work?” He finally asks. You bite your lip and then shrug.

“It’s my best shot. Otherwise my mom will be very much up in my business until I either die, leave the country or enter witness protection.” You sigh. His eyes flash at that - good eyes. Those are such good eyes.

“Well. We can improve those odds.” He decides abruptly. “Want a boyfriend? For the night.” He’s careful to add. 

You gape at him. 

“What?!” He laughs. “I’m young. Smart. Successful. About to be well groomed. Always down for a free meal. Besides. It sounds fun. And I’m always willing to keep hovering parents out of someone’s business. Personal point of honor. Come on. Say yes.” 

You say yes. 

Your heart is doing that thing again as the hairdressers simultaneously emerge from the back room. They look at the two of you, and exchange a glance. They’ve got their work cut out for them. 

Twenty minutes later, and you feel like a new person. The difference would have been astonishing but… well, if you’d had a dramatic transformation, then he…

Peter’s staring in the mirror, trying to come to grips with his hair. 

“It’s so professional.” He moans. You roll your eyes.   
“It’s hot.” You’ve gathered by now that he requires a constant string of compliments to be satisfied. He look over at you.

“Yeah? I mean, damn, you cleaned up real nice, and here I am looking like…”

“Hot.” You repeat. Heh. He said you cleaned up real nice. The guy with the good face said you cleaned up real nice. He looks in the mirror, running his hand through his hair one last time, then turns to you. 

“Shit. We gotta get going. How did we meet?” 

“Huh?” 

“I’m your fake boyfriend.” He reminds you with a tone of absolute patience. “How did we meet?” 

“Uh… hairdresser?” You propose weakly. He sighs. 

“Ugh. It’ll do. C’mon. I want some steak.” And with that, he grabs your hand, tugging you out onto the street, a stupid, way too amused grin on his face. 

Oh, this is so dumb. 

But then he turns that smile at you and-

Goddamn it, this man you’d only just met could probably talk you into anything.


End file.
